all; at
least, I never saw them; but I mean to try whether she has any some day,
by making a frightful noise when she drops me that smart curtsey in
passing.'

'I am sure we want hands badly enough in the wheat field, said Farmer
Prothero. 'If the girl could pick up her crumbs a little by harvesting,
you could keep her a while longer, and then send her off in search of
her relations.'

'Thank you, David. I will ask her what she can do,' said Mrs Prothero.

'Not much in that way, I am pretty sure,' said Netta. 'How should those
wretched Irish, who live on nothing but potatoes, know any thing about
the wheat harvest?'

'Treue for you there, my girl,' said Mr Prothero, 'but I daresay mother
will make believe that she knows something.

'Mother' found the object of their conversation that very evening in the
wheat field, sitting under a tree, at work. She had sent her out for a
walk, and this was her exercise. Owen and Netta were with their mother,
and as they approached, Gladys rose, curtseyed, and was going away, when
Owen made an unnatural kind of whistle, as if to frighten away some cows
in the distance. Gladys started, and with a terrified face glanced at
him. He found that she had very beautiful, violet eyes, with lashes so
long and black, that when she looked to the earth again they made a
strange contrast to her pale face.

'What sad, uncomfortable eyes,' thought Owen; 'I must have another
glance at them by-and-by. If she had a colour she might be pretty, as
mother says, but it makes one ill to look at her.'

'Do you think,' said Mrs Prothero, addressing Gladys, 'that you could
manage to help in the harvest; My husband says he will employ you, if
you can.'

'Oh, thank you, my lady! I would do my best, and if I could only stay
here longer under any circumstances--I should--oh, be so thankful!'

This was said with much hesitation.

'Very well, then; if you will try to-morrow we shall be able to judge
what you can do.'

'She don't look strong enough to bind the sheaves,' said Owen.

'I will try, sir, if you please,' said Gladys.

'What is the name of the friends you are seeking?' asked Owen with a
glance at his sister.

'Jones, sir,' replied Gladys, again looking at Owen.

'Perhaps there is a David in the family?' asked Owen.

'I believe that my grandfather's name was David,' was the reply.

'Now, if you walk through Carmarthenshire, and just ask every one you
meet if they know David Jones, I am su